A few nobles shifted. Someone in the gallery made a sound that might have been approval or offense.
Lucien did not visibly smile.
But the bond warmed once, low and fierce, as if admiration could travel through blood when his face could not show it.
Serast made a note.
“The grain-weight accusation,” he said. “Do you deny it.”
“I deny certainty. The records are incomplete. My father managed the estate through famine. If errors were made, they were made under duress, not malice.”
“Errors or theft.”
“The distinction matters less to hungry tenants than to crown clerks with clean ledgers.”
Another ripple moved through the chamber.
Maelor watched her from beside the witness table, his expression sharpening by a degree.
Serast’s mouth tightened.
“You speak boldly for a woman whose house survives by crown patience.”
“No,” Sabine said. “I speak plainly because patience has become another word for leverage.”
Silence.
Then Serast closed the ledger.
“You may step back.”
Sabine returned to her place among the brides.
Her heart hammered. Her face remained controlled.
For a moment, she thought the trial had finished with her.
Then Serast rose again.
“The Trial of Names does not test brides alone,” he said. “It tests the names attached to them. Lady Sabine was marked first. The bond has shown irregular strength. Therefore, the prince’s prior sacred union must be entered into witness.”
The chamber went silent.
Sabine’s mark flared hot.
Lucien stepped forward.
He moved with full court control.
Measured stride. Straight spine. Expression unreadable. Nothing in his face told the room what the demand had cost.
Sabine felt it anyway.
The bond reacted beneath her skin. Heat. Pressure. Then a deep ache, not hers and yet inside her. Grief moving through the mark like dark water through a crack.
Serast gestured to the witness floor.
“Prince Lucien Vhalor. You stand witness to your first chosen bride.”
